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LETTERS 



OF 



. 



JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



WITH A 



t 



FIFTH EDITION. 



* , • 



LONDON 



EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE. 



1824 



I 
I « 






J. M'Oeery, Tooks Couit, 
Loudon. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 



When a writer has acquired great renown 
by his productions, and has established his 
reputation as a man of genius, we naturally 
feel a curiosity to become acquainted not 
only with his personal but his intellectual 
history. We like to trace up the current of 
his mind to its first tricklings, as it were, and 
to listen to its prattlings among the pebbles, 
as it is hurrying along to its broader and 
bolder channel. 

The author of the Sketch Book has be- 
come more distinguished than perhaps any 
other American writer ; and even England 
has been constrained to acknowledge that 
his productions are among the most elegant 
specimens of English composition. 

In the year J 802, Mr. Irving first attracted 
public notice by publishing in the Morning 
Chronicle a series of sportive pieces under 
the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle. To the 
new generation of readers produced by the 

a2 



IV 



lapse of twenty-two years, we trust that their 
republication will be peculiarly acceptable. 

It is in these specimens that we may per- 
ceive the germ of that genius which soon af- 
ter blossomed in Salmagundi, shot forth in 
wild luxuriance in Knickerbocker, and fi- 
nally displayed its rich fruit in the Sketch 
Book, and Bracebridge Hall. 

A brief account of the life and writings of 
Mr. Irving will, perhaps, not be deemed super- 
fluous by the readers of this little publication. 
The city of New York has the honour of 
being the birth-place of this distinguished 
author, who has given such eclat to the lite- 
rary reputation of our country. He was a 
student in Columbia College, in the year 
1800, but by reason of his infirm health, was 
under the necessity of relinquishing his clas- 
sical studies, and of devoting his attention to 
pursuits less compulsory and severe. By 
way of recreation, he was advised to take 
lessons in drawing ; and for this purpose he 
put himself under the tuition of a gentleman, 
whose Drawing Academy still maintains a 
high reputation in our city. What proficien- 
cy he made in this art, we have not the 



means of ascertaining. It is presumable, 
however, that this kind of sketching was not 
that which best accorded with his genius, 
nor probably consisted with his health ; for 
he soon afterwards began to turn his thoughts 
to travel, and a voyage across the Atlantic 
was recommended by his physician, and en- 
couraged by his kindred and friends. In 
the interim, however, and indeed before this 
determination had been taken, his elder bro- 
ther, now in England, was editing a news- 
paper in this city; and although a political 
paper, and devoted to the views and interests 
of a party, yet some portions of its columns 
were occasionally embellished " by hands 
unseen,' with the flowers of poetry and lite- 
rature, and sometimes enlivened by flashes 
of wit and humour. An inviting opportunity 
here presented itself, for trying the scarcely 
fledged wings of our juvenile author: and a 
tw r o-fold benefit could be conferred — credit 
to himself, and relief to the care-worn and 
harassed editor, whose political conflicts did 
not allow him leisure to woo the muses to 
his aid; and he knew, that without some 
contributions from the Pierian district, his 



i 



VI 

paper, even in this " banknote-world," would 
soon decline, for the want of contributions of 
a more substantial quality. 

It was at this period, that the light pieces 
now republished, first made their appearance. 
They attracted a good deal of notice, and the 
Morning Chronicle was eagerly sought for 
by the lovers of genuine native humour. 
Mr. Irving then embarked for France, from 
whence he proceeded to Italy, and went as 
far as Rome and Naples. His travels and 
residence abroad enabled him to entertain 
his friends at home with the most amusing 
accounts of his various adventures, and the 
most picturesque descriptions of every thing 
that presented itself to his ready and lively ap- 
prehension. His letters are, no doubt, yet to 
be found within the circle of his relatives and 
correspondents, and the hope may beindulged, 
that they will not suffer them to be lost. 

Our author returned to America, we be- 
lieve, some time in the year 1805 or 1806 ; 
and his health being much improved, he 
commenced the study of the law, in the of- 
fice of an eminent counsellor in New York. 
Coke, however, "delighted him not — nor 



Vll 

Blackstone neither." What progress he 
made in his juridical pursuits, we know 
not; but that he read more than he under- 
stood, and understood more than he remem- 
bered, there can be but little doubt. 

In the year 1807, he amused the town with 
his Salmagundi, which was published in 
numbers, commencing in January, and con- 
tinuing till the beginning of the next year. 
Several of the numbers are ascribed to a 
gentleman who has since distinguished him- 
self both in poetry and prose, and whose co- 
pious, chaste, and vigorous style, as well as 
his satirical wit, sarcastic humour, and bit- 
ing irony, render all his attempts at conceal- 
ment unavailing. The poetical pieces which 
embellish Salmagundi, are well known to be 
the production of the eldest brother of our 
author, and who is since deceased. Salma- 
gundi is now publishing in London, as 
Knickerbocker's History has already been ; 
for such is Mr. Irving'^ reputation and po- 
pularity in England, that John Bull is now 
quite willing to ask for, and to read, an 
American book ; though, according to a 
learned coxcomb, (critic, we meant to say,) 



Vllt 



in the Edinburgh Review a few years ago, 
such a thing was then never thought of. 

In the year 1810, an edition of Campbell's 
Poems being about to be published in Phila- 
delphia, Mr. Irving was applied to for a bio- 
graphical sketch of that sweet and sublime 
bard. This task he executed in a most mas- 
terly manner; and the forty pages of which 
it consists, form, in our humble opinion, the 
most beautiful and finished piece of serious 
compositipn that ever came from his pen. In 
point of style, refined sentiment, and generous 
and spirited effusion, we venture to assert, 
that it is not surpassed by any piece of prose 
in the English language. 

The History of Neiv York, by Deidrich 
Knickerbocker, was his next production ; and 
in this he seems to have exerted all his pow- 
ers of good-natured burlesque, playful wit, 
and facetious fancy. He prepared himself 
for this work by a course of diligent research 
into the antiquities of New Amsterdam ; and 
the libraries of New York and Philadelphia 
were ransacked for materials, or rather sub- 
jects, for his wizard pencil. It is a broad 
caricature from beginning to end ; and, like a 



IX 

magic lantern, exhibits the most fantastic 
combinations, the most ludicrous distortions, 
and unlicensed exaggerations, that a mirthful 
fancy can create. Though sport to many, it 
was not so to all ; and some of the descend- 
ants of our Dutch aborigines were not a little 
offended at the liberty which the author has 
taken with the names and manners of those 
whom they had been accustomed to remem- 
ber with reverence and respect. A gentle- 
man whose name bespeaks his Dutch lineage, 
and whose talents entitle his observations to 
very high regard, in his Discourse before the 
New York Historical Society in 1818, makes 
the following animadversions on the subject, 
with peculiar elegance and feeling : — 

" It is more \ in sorrow than in anger,' that 
J feel myself compelled to add to these gross 
instances of national injustice, a recent work 
of a writer of our own, who is justly consi- 
dered one of the brightest ornaments of Ame- 
rican literature. I allude to the burlesque 
history of New York, in which it is painful 
to see a mind, as admirable for its exquisite 
perception of the beautiful, as it is for its 
quick sense of the ridiculous, wasting the 



riches of its fancy on an ungrateful theme, and 
its exuberant humour in a coarse caricature. 

" This writer has not yet fulfilled all the 
promise he has given to his country. It is 
his duty, because it is in his power, to brush 
away the pretenders who may at any time in- 
fest her society, her science, or her politics ; 
or if he aspires, as 1 trust that he does, to 
strains of a higher mood, the deeds of his 
countrymen, and the undescribed beauties of 
his native land, afford him many a rich sub- 
ject, and he may deck the altar of his coun- 
try's glory with the garlands of his taste and 
fancy. 

" How dangerous a gift is the power of ridi- 
cule! It is potent to unmask the pretender, 
and to brand the hypocrite; yet how often 
has it dissipated those gay illusions which 
beguile the rough path of life — how often has 
it chilled the glow of genius and invention — 
how often, at its dread presence, have the ho- 
nest boasts, of patriotism, the warm expres- 
sion of piety, the generous purpose of bene- 
ficence, faltered on the lips, and died away 
in the heart." 

About the year J 812, Mr. Irving went to 



XI 

England, and became a partner in a commer- 
cial concern, of which two of his brothers 
were also partners, and one of whom re- 
mained in this country. The correspondence 
department, which was extensive, was allot- 
ted to the literary member of the house; and 
the business of the establishment had become 
so profitable, that each one, soon after the 
peace of 1815, had a prospect of sharing a 
handsome dividend. Our author enjoyed the 
expectation of retiring from the irksome drud- 
gery of the counting-house to the sweets of 
literary leisure, with a competence for life, 
when the failure of a commercial adventure, 
in a moment convinced him of the vanity and 
delusiveness of human anticipations, and re- 
duced him to a state of almost life-loathing 
despondency. What a trial for a sensitive 
mind — and yet for his credit and his fame 
what a fortunate reverse ! His pen and his 
ledger are exchanged for his pencil and his 
sketch-book ; and Geoffrey's drafts are more 
highly honoured, than those of any merchant 
in the land. 



( 



LETTERS 



OF 



JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 



WRITTEN IN 1802. 



LETTER I. 

Sir, 

.Nothing is more intolerable to an 
old person than innovation on old habits. 
The customs that prevailed in our youth be- 
come dear to us as we advance in years ; and 
we can no more bear to see them abolished, 
than we can to behold the trees cut down 
under which we have sported in the happy 
days of infancy. 

Even I myself, who have floated down the 
stream of life with the tide — who have hu- 



moured it in all its turnings — who have con- 
formed in a great measure to all its fashions, — 
cannot but feel sensible of this prejudice. I 
often sigh when I draw a comparison between 
the present and the past; and though J can- 
not but be sensible that, in general, times are 
altered for the better, yet there is something 
even in the imperfections of the manners 
which prevailed in my youthful days, that is 
inexpressibly endearing. 
/ There is nothing that seems more strange 
and preposterous to me, than the manner in 
which modern marriages are conducted. The 
parties keep the matter as secret as if there 
was something disgraceful in the connexion. 
The lady positively denies that any thing of 
the kind is to happen; will laugh at her in- 
tended husband, and even lay bets against 
the event, the very day before it is to take 
place. They sneak into matrimony as quiet- 
ly as possible,, and seem to pride themselves 
on the cunning and ingenuity they have dis- 
played in their manoeuvres. 

How different is this from the manners of 
former times ! I recollect when my Aunt Bar- 
bara was addressed by 'Squire Stylish; no- 



3 

thing was heard of during the whole court- 
ship, but consultations and negotiations be- 
tween her friends and relatives; the matter 
was considered and re-considered, and at 
length the time set for a final answer. Ne- 
ver, Mr. Editor, shall I forget the awful so- 
lemnity of the scene. The whole family of 
the Oldstyles assembled in awful conclave: 
my aunt Barbara, dressed out as fine as 
hands could make her— high cushion, enor- 
mous cap, long waist, prodigious hoop, ruf- 
fles that reached to the end of her fingers, 
and a gown of flame-coloured brocade, fi- 
gured with poppies, roses, and sun-flowers. 
Never did she look so sublimely handsome. 
The 'Squire entered the room with a counte- 
nance suited to the solemnity of the occasion. 
He was arrayed in a full suit of scarlet vel- 
vet, his coat decorated with a profusion of 
large silk buttons, and the skirts stiffened 
with a yard or two of buckram: a long pig- 
tailed wig, well powdered, adorned his head; 
and stockings of deep blue silk, rolled over 
the knees, graced his extremities; the flaps 
of his vest reached to his knee-buckles, and 
the ends of his cravat, tied with the most 



precise neatness, twisted through every but- 
ton-hole. Thus accoutred, he gravely walked 
into the room, with his ivory-headed ebony 
cane in one hand, and gently swaying his 
three-cornered beaver with the other. The 
gallant and fashionable appearance of the 
'Squire, the gracefulness and dignity of his 
deportment, occasioned a general smile of 
complacency through the room ; my aunt 
Barbara modestly veiled her countenance 
with her fan ; but I observed her contem- 
plating her admirer with great satisfaction 
through the sticks. 

The business was opened with the most 
formal solemnity, but was not long in agita- 
tion. The Oldstyles were moderate — their 
articles of capitulation few: the 'Squire was 
gallant, and acceded to them all. In short, 
the blushing Barbara was delivered up to his 
embraces with due ceremony. Then, Mr. 
Editor — then were the happy times : such 
oceans of arrack — such mountains of plum- 
cake — such feasting and congratulating — 
such fiddling and dancing: — ah me! who 
can think of those days, and not sigh when 
he sees the degeneracy of the present: no 



eating of cake nor throwing of stockings — not 
a single skin filled with wine on the joyful 
occasion — nor a single pocket edified by it 
but the parson's. 

It is with the greatest pain I see those cus- 
toms dying away, which served to awaken 
the hospitality and friendship of my ancient 
comrades — that strewed with flowers the path 
to the altar, and shed a ray of sunshine on 
the commencement of the matrimonial union. 

The deportment of my aunt Barbara and 
her husband was as decorous after marriage 
as before; her conduct was always regulated 
by his — her sentiments ever accorded with 
his opinions; she was always eager to tie on 
his neckcloth of a morning — to tuck a napkin 
under his chin at meal times — to wrap him 
up warm of a winter's day, and to spruce 
him up as smart as possible of a Sunday. 
The 'Squire was the most attentive and polite 
husband in the world ; would hand his wife 
in and out of church with the greatest cere- 
mony — drink her health at dinner with par- 
ticular emphasis, and ask her advice on every 
subject — though I must confess he invariably 
adopted his own:~nothing was heard from 

B 



6 

both sides, but dears, sweet loves, doves, &c. 
The 'Squire could never stir out of a winter's 
day, without his wife calling after him from 
the window to button up his waistcoat care- 
fully. Thus, all things went on smoothly; 
and my relations Stylish had the name, and, 
as far as I know, deserved it, of being the 
most happy and loving couple in the world. 

A modern married pair will, no doubt, 
laugh at all this; they are accustomed to treat 
one another with the utmost carelessness and 
neglect. No longer does the wife tuck the 
napkin under her husband's chin, nor the hus- 
band attend to heaping her plate with dain- 
ties ; no longer do I see those little amusing 
fooleries in company, where the lady would 
pat her husband's cheek, and he chuck her 
under the chin; when dears and sweets were 
as plenty as cookies on a new-year's day. 
The wife now considers herself as totally in- 
dependent — will advance her own opinions 
without hesitation, though directly opposite 
to his — will carry on accounts of her own, 
and will even have secrets of her own, with 
which she refuses to intrust him. 

Who can read these facts, and not lament 



with me the degeneracy of the present times; 
— what husband is there but will look back 
with regret to the happy days of female sub- 
jection. 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



b2 



LETTER II. 

Sir, 

1 here is no place of public amuse- 
ment of which I am so fond as the Theatre. 
To enjoy this with the greater relish I go 
but seldom ; and I find there is no play, how- 
ever poor or ridiculous, from which I cannot 
derive some entertainment. 

I was very much taken with a play bill 
of last week, announcing, in large capitals, 
" The Battle of Hexham, or, Days of Old." 
Here, said I to myself, will be something 
^grand — Days of old — my fancy fired at the 
words. I pictured to myself all the gallantry 
of chivalry. Here, thought I, will be a dis- 
play of court manners, and true politeness ; 
the play will, no doubt, be garnished with 
tilts and tournaments ; and as to those ban- 
ditti, whose names make such a formidable 
appearance on the bills, they will be hung up, 
every mother's son, for the edification of the 
gallery 

With such impressions I took my seat in 



9 

the pit, and was so impatient that I could 
hardly attend to the music, though I found it 
very good. 

The curtain rose — out walked the Queen 
with great majesty ; she answered my ideas 
— she was dressed well, she looked well, and 
she acted well. The Queen was followed by 
a pretty gentleman, who, from his winking 
and grinning, I took to be the court fool ; I 
soon found out my mistake. He was a cour- 
tier " high in trust" and either general, colo- 
nel, or something of martial dignity. They 
talked for some time, though I could not un- 
derstand the drift of their discourse, so I 
amused myself with eating pea-nuts. 

In one of the scenes I was diverted with 
the stupidity of a corporal and his men, who 
sung a dull song, and talked a great deal 
about nothing : though I found by their 
laughing, there was a great deal of fun in the 
corporal's remarks. What this scene had to 
do with the rest of the piece, I could not 
comprehend ; I suspect it was a part of some 
other play, thrust in here % accident. 

I was then introduced to a cavern, where 
there were several hard looking fellows, sit- 



10 

ting around a table carousing. They told 
the audience they were banditti. They then 
sung a gallery song, of which I could under- 
stand nothing but two lines : 

(t The Welshman lik'd to have been chokM by a mouse, 
But he puird him out by the tail." 

Just as they had ended this elegant song, 
their banquet was disturbed by the melodious 
sound of a horn, and in marched a portly 
gentleman, who, I found, was their captain. 
After this worthy gentleman had fumed his 
hour out, after he had slapped his breast and 
drawn his sword half a dozen times, the act 
ended. 

In the course of the play, I learnt that 
there had been, or was, or would be, a battle; 
but how, or when, or where, I could not un- 
derstand. The banditti once more made 
their appearance, and frightened the wife of 
the portly gentleman, who was dressed in 
man's clothes, and was seeking her husband. 
I could not enough admire the dignity of 
her deportment, the sweetness of her coun- 
tenance, and the unaffected gracefulness of 
her action ; but who the captain really was, 
or why he ran away from his spouse, I could 



not understand. However, they seemed very 
glad to find one another again ; and so at 
last the play ended, by the falling of the 
curtain. 

1 wish the manager would use a drop scene 
at the close of the acts ; we might then al- 
ways ascertain the termination of the piece 
by the green curtain. On this occasion, I 
was indebted to the polite bows of the actors 
for this pleasing information. I cannot say 
that I was entirely satisfied with the play, 
but I promised myself ample entertainment 
in the after-piece, which was called the Tri- 
politan Prize. JNow, thought I, we shall 
have some sport for our money ; we will, no 
doubt, see a few of those Tripolitan scoun- 
drels spitted like turkeys, for our amusement, 
Well, sir, the curtain rose — the trees waved 
in front of the stage, and the sea rolled in the 
rear — all things looked very pleasant and 
smiling. Presently I heard a bustling be- 
hind the scenes — here, thought I, comes a 
band of fierce Tripolitans, with whiskers as 
long as my arm. No such thing— they were 
only a party of village masters and misses, 
taking a walk for exercise, and very pretty 



12 



behaved young gentry they were, I assure 
you; but it was cruel in the manager to 
dress them in buckram, as it deprived them 
entirely of the use of their limbs. They ar- 
ranged themselves very orderly on each side 
of the stage, and sung something, doubtless 
very affecting, for they all looked pitiful 
enough. By and by came up a most tre- 
mendous storm : the lightning flashed, the 
thunder roared, and the rain fell in torrents: 
however, our pretty rustics stood gaping 
quietly at one another, until they must have 
been wet to the skin. I was surprised at 
their torpidity, till I found they were each 
one afraid to move first, for fear of being 
laughed at for their awkwardness. How they 
got off I do not recollect: but I advise the 
manager, in a similar case, to furnish every 
one with a trap-door, through which to make 
his exit. Yet this would deprive the audi- 
ence of much amusement; for nothing can 
be more laughable than to see a body of 
guards with their spears, or courtiers with 
their long robes, get across the stage at our 
theatre. 

Scene passed after scene. In vain 1 strained 



13 

ray eyes to catch a glimpse of a Mahometan 
phiz. I once heard a great bellowing be- 
hind the scenes, and expected to see a strap- 
ping Mussulman come bouncing in ; but was 
miserably disappointed, on distinguishing his 
voice, to find out by his sivearing that he was 
only a Christian. In he came— an American 
navy officer. Worsted stockings — olive vel- 
vet small clothes— scarlet vest — pea-jacket, 
and gold-laced hat — dressed quite in charac- 
ter. I soon found out, by his talk, that he 
was an American prize-master ; that, return- 
ing through the Mediterranean with his Tri- 
politan prize, he was driven by a storm on 
the coast of England. The honest gentle- 
man seemed, from his actions, to be rather 
intoxicated: which I could account for in 
no other way than his having drank a great 
deal of salt water, as he swam ashore. 

Several following scenes were taken up 
with hallooing and huzzaing, between the 
captain, hjs crew, and the gallery, with se- 
veral amusing tricks of the captain and his 
son, a very funny, mischievous little fellow. 
Then came the cream of the joke : the cap- 
tain w r anted to put to sea, and the young fel- 



14 

low, who had fallen desperately in love, to 
stay ashore. Here was a contest between 
love and honour — such piping of eyes, such 
blowing of noses, such slapping of pocket- 
holes! But old Junk was inflexible — What ! 
an American tar desert his duty! (three 
cheers from the gallery,) impossible! Ameri- 
can tars for ever!! True blue will never 
stain, &c. &c. (a continual thundering among 
the gods). Here was a scene of distress — 
here was bathos. The author seemed as 
much puzzled to know how to dispose of 
the young tar, as old Junk was. It would 
not do to leave an American seaman on fo- 
reign ground, nor would it do to separate 
him from his mistress. 

Scene the last opened. — It seems that ano- 
ther Tripolitan cruiser had bore down on 
the prize, as she lay about a mile off shore. 
How a Barbary corsair had got in this part 
of the world — whether she had been driven 
there by the same storm, or whether she was 
cruising to pick up a few English first rates, 
I could not learn. However, here she was. 
Again were we conducted to the sea-shore, 
where we found all the village gentry, in 



15 

their buckram suits, ready assembled, to be 
entertained with the rare show of an Ame- 
rican and Tripolitan engaged yard-arm and 
yard-arm. The battle was conducted with 
proper decency and decorum, and the Tri- 
politan very politely gave in — as it would be 
indecent to conquer in the face of an Aiim ri- 
can audience. 

After the engagement the crew came ashore, 
joined with the captain and gallery in a few 
more huzzas, and the curtain fell. How old 
Junk, his son, and his son's sweetheart, set- 
tled it, I could not discover. 

I was somewhat puzzled to underd, I the 
meaning and necessity of this engager! t be- 
tween the ships, till an honest old c ntry- 
man at my elbow said, he supposed £1 r was 
the Battle of Hexharn, as he recoiled ad no 
fighting in the first piece. With this Wpla- 
nation I was perfectly satisfied. 

My remarks upon the audience, I shall 
postpone to another opportunity. 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



LETTER III. 

Sir, 

My last communication mentioned my 
visit to the theatre ; the remarks it contained 
were chiefly confined to the play and the ac- 
tors; I shall now extend them to the audience, 
who, I assure you, furnish no inconsiderable 
part of the entertainment. 

As J entered the house some time before 
the curtain rose, I had sufficient leisure to 
make some observations. I was much amused 
with the waggery and humour of the gallery, 
which, by the way, is kept in excellent order 
by the constables who are stationed there. 
The noise in this part of the house is some- 
what similar to that which prevailed in Noah's 
ark ; for we have an imitation of the whistles 
and yells of every kind of animal. This, in 
some measure, compensates for the want of 
music, as the gentlemen of our orchestra are 
very economic of their favours. Somehow 
or another, the anger of the gods seemed to 



17 

be aroused all of a sudden, and they com- 
menced a discharge of apples, nuts, and gin- 
gerbread, on the heads of the honest folks in 
the pit, who had no possibility of retreating 
from this new kind of thunderbolts. I can't 
say but I was a little irritated at being sa- 
luted aside of my head with a rotten pippin ; 
and was going to shake my cane at them, 
but was prevented by a decent looking man 
behind me, who informed me that it was use- 
less to threaten or expostulate. They are 
only amusing themselves a little at our ex- 
pense, said he; sit down quietly and bend 
your back to it. My kind neighbour was 
interrupted by a hard green apple that hit 
him between the shoulders — he made a wry 
face, but knowing it was all a joke, bore the 
blow like a philosopher. I soon saw the wis- 
dom of this determination; a stray thunder- 
bolt happened to light on the head of a little 
sharp faced frenchman, dressed in a white 
coat and small cocked hat, who sat two or 
three benches ahead of me, apd seemed to be 
an irritable little animal. Monsieur was ter- 
ribly exasperated ; .he jumped upon his seat, 
shook his fist at the gallery, and swore vio- 



18 



lently in bad English. This was all nuts to 
his merry persecutors ; their attention was 
wholly turned on him, and he formed their 
target for the rest of the evening. 

I found the ladies in the boxes, as usual, 
studious to please; their charms were set off 
to the greatest advantage ; each box was a 
little battery in itself, and they all seemed 
eager to outdo each other in the havoc they 
spread around. An arch glance in one box 
was rivalled by a smile in another, that smile 
by a simper in a third, and in a fourth a most 
bewitching languish carried all before it. 

I was surprised to see some persons recon- 
noitring the company through spy-glasses ; 
and was in doubt whether these machines 
were used to remedy deficiencies of vision, 
or whether this was another of the eccentri- 
cities of fashion. Jack Stylish has since in- 
formed me, that glasses were lately all the 
go; though hang it, says Jack, it is quite 
out at present ; we used to mount our glasses 
in great snuff, but since so many tough 
jochies have followed the lead, the bucks 
have all cut the custom. I give you, Mr. 
Editor, the account in my dashing cousin's 



Ill 

own language, [t is from a vocabulary I do 
not well understand, 

I was considerably amused by the queries 
of the countryman mentioned in my last, who 
was now making his first visit to the theatre. 
He kept constantly applying to me for in- 
formation, and I readily communicated, as 
far as my own ignorance would permit. 

As this honest man was casting his eye 
round the house, his attention was suddenly 
arrested. And pray, who are these? said he, 
pointing to a cluster of young fellows. These, 
1 suppose, are the critics, of whom I have 
heard so much. They have, no doubt, got 
together to communicate their remarks, and 
compare notes; these are the persons through 
whom the audience exercise their judgments, 
and by whom they are told when they are to 
applaud or to hiss. Critics! ha! ha! my 
dear sir, they trouble themselves as little 
about the elements of criticism, as they do 
about other departments of science and belles- 
lettres. These are the beaux of the present 
day, who meet here to lounge away an idle 
hour, and play off their little impertinences 
for the entertainment of the public. They 



20 

no more regard the merits of the play, nor of 
the actors, than my cane. They even strive 
to appear inattentive ; and I have seen one 
of them perched on the front of the box with 
his back to the stage, sacking the head of 
his stick, and staring vacantly at the audi- 
ence, insensible to the most interesting speci- 
mens of scenic representation, though the 
tear of sensibility was trembling in every eye 
around him. I have heard that some have 
even gone so far in search of amusement, as 
to propose a game of cards in the theatre, 
during the performance. The eyes of my 
neighbour sparkled at this information — his 
cane, shook in his hand — the word puppies 
burst from his lips. Naj% says I, 1 don't 
give this for absolute fact: my cousin Jack 
was, I believe, quizzing me (as he terms it) 
when he gave me the information. But you 
seem quite indignant, said J, to the decent 
looking man in my rear. It was from him 
the exclamation came: the honest countryman 
was gazing in gaping wonder on some new 
attraction. Believe me, said I, if you had 
them daily before your eyes, you would get 
quite used to them. Used to them, replied 



21 

he; how is it possible for people of sense to 
relish such conduct? Bless you, my friend, 
people of sense have nothing to do with it ; 
they merely endure it in silence. These 
young gentlemen live in an indulgent age. 
When I was a young man, such tricks and 
follies were held in proper contempt. Here 
I went a little too far; for, upon better recol- 
lection, I must own that a lapse of years has 
produced but little alteration in this depart- 
ment of folly and impertinence. But do the 
ladies admire these manners! Truly, I am 
not as conversant in female circles as for- 
merly; but I should think it a poor compli- 
ment to my fair countrywomen, to suppose 
them pleased with the stupid stare and cant 
phrases with which these votaries of fashion 
add affected to real ignorance. 

Our conversation was here interrupted by 
the ringing of a bell. Now for the play, said 
my companion. No, said I, it is only for the 
musicians. These worthy gentlemen then 
came crawling out of their holes, and began, 
with very solemn and important phizzes, 
strumming and tuning their instruments in 
the usual style of discordance, to the great 

c 



22 

entertainment of the audience. What tune is 
that? asked my neighbour, covering his ears. 
This, said I, is no tune; it is only a pleasing 
symphony, with which we are regaled, as a 
preparative. For my part, though 1 admire 
the effect of contrast, I think they might as 
well play it in their cavern under the stage. 
The bell rung a second time — and then began 
the tune in reality; but I could not help ob- 
serving, that the countryman was more di- 
verted with the queer grimaces and contor- 
tions of countenance exhibited by the musi- 
cians, than their melody. What I heard of 
the music, I liked very well ; (though I was 
told by one of my neighbours, that the same 
pieces have been played every night for these 
three years ;) but it was often overpowered 
by the gentry in the gallery, who vociferated 
loudly for Moll in the Wad, Tally ho the 
Grinders, and several other airs more suited 
to their tastes. 

I observed that every part of the house has 
its different department. The good folks of 
the gallery have all the trouble of ordering 
the music ; (their directions^ however, are not 
more frequently followed than they deserve). 



23 

The mode by which they issue their man- 
dates is stamping, hissing, roaring, whistling; 
and, when the musicians are refractory, 
groaning in cadence. They also have the 
privilege of demanding a bow from John, (by 
which name they designate every servant at 
the theatre, who enters to move a table or 
snuff a candle) ; and of detecting those cun- 
ning dogs who peep from behind the curtain. 
By the by, my honest friend was much 
puzzled about the curtain itself. He wanted 
to know why that carpet was hung up in the 
theatre? I assured him it was no carpet, but 
a very fine curtain. And what, pray, may 
be the meaning of that gold head, with the 
nose cut off, that I see in front of it ? The 
meaning — why, really, I can't tell exactly- — 
though my cousin, Jack Stylish, says there 
is a great deal of meaning in it. But surely 
you like the design of the curtain ? The de- 
sign, — why really I can see no design about 
it, unless it is to be brought down about our 
ears by the weight of those gold heads, and 
that heavy cornice with which it is garnished. 
1 began now to be uneasy for the credit of 
our curtain, and was afraid he would per- 

c 2 



24 

ceive the mistake of the painter, in putting a 
harp in the middle of the curtain, and calling 
it a mirror; but his attention was happily 
called away by the candle-grease from the 
chandelier, over the centre of the pit, drop- 
ping on his clothes. This he loudly com- 
plained of, and declared his coat was bran- 
new. How, my friend? said I; w r e must put 
up with a few trifling inconveniences, when 
in the pursuit of pleasure. True, said he; 
but I think I pay pretty dear for it; — first to 
give six shillings at the door, and then to 
have my head battered with rotten apples, 
and my coat spoiled by candle-grease; by 
and by I shall have my other clothes dirtied 
by sitting down, as 1 perceive every body 
mounted on the benches. I wonder if they 
could not see as well if they were all to stand 
upon the floor. 

Here I could no longer defend our cus- 
toms, for I could scarcely breathe while 
thus surrounded by a host of strapping fel- 
lows, standing with their dirty boots on the 
seats of the benches. The little Frenchman, 
who thus found a temporary shelter from 
the missive compliments of his gallery friend, 






25 

was the only person benefitted. At last the 
bell again rung, and the cry of down, down 
— hats off, was the signal for the commence- 
ment of the play. 

If, Mr. Editor, the garrulity of an old fel- 
low is not tiresome, and you choose to give 
this view of a New-York Theatre a place in 
your paper, you may, perhaps, hear further 
from your friend, 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



LETTER IV. 

Sir, 

I shall now conclude my remarks 
on the Theatre, which I am afraid you will 
think are spun out to an unreasonable length ; 
for this I can give no other excuse, than that 
it is the privilege of old folks to be tiresome, 
and so 1 shall proceed. 

I had chosen a seat in the pit, as least 
subject to annoyance from a habit of talking 
loud that has lately crept into our theatres, 
and which particularly prevails in the boxes. 
In old times, people went to the theatre for 
the sake of the play and acting ; but I now 
find that it begins to answer the purpose of 
a coffee-house, or fashionable lounge, where 
many indulge in loud conversation, without 
any regard to the pain it inflicts on their 
more attentive neighbours. As this conver- 
sation is generally of the most trifling kind, 
it seldom repays the latter for the inconve- 
nience they suffer, of not hearing one half 
of the play. I found, however, that I had 



27 

not much bettered my situation; but that 
every part of the house has its share of evils. 
Besides those I had already suffered, I was 
yet to undergo a new kind of torment I 
had got in the neighbourhood of a very oblig- 
ing personage, who had seen the play before, 
and was kindly anticipating every scene, and 
informing those that were about him what 
was to take place ; to prevent, I suppose, 
any disagreeable surprise to which they would 
otherwise have been liable. Had there been 
any thing of a plot to the play, this might 
have been a serious inconvenience; but, as 
the piece was entirely innocent of every thing 
of the kind, it was not of so much import- 
ance. As I generally contrive to extract 
amusement from every thing that happens, I 
now entertained myself with remarks on the 
self-important air with which he delivered 
his information, and the distressed and im- 
patient looks of his unwilling auditors. I 
also observed, that he made several mistakes 
in the course of his communications. " Now 
you '11 see," said he, " the queen in all her 
glory, surrounded with her courtiers, fine as 
fiddles, and ranged on each side of the stage, 



28 

like rows of pewter dishes." On the con- 
trary, we were presented with the portly 
gentleman and his ragged regiment of ban- 
ditti. Another time he promised us a regale 
from the fool ; but we were presented with a 
very fine speech from the queen's grinning 
counsellor. 

My country neighbour was exceedingly 
delighted with the performance, though he 
did not half the time understand what was 
going forward. He sat staring, with open 
mouth, at the portly gentleman, as he strode 
across the stage, and in furious rage drew 
his sword on the white lion. " By George, 
but that's a brave fellow," said he, when 
the act was over ; " that h what you call first- 
rate acting, 1 suppose." 

Yes, said I, it is what the critics of the 
present day admire, but it is not altogether 
what I like; you should have seen an actor 
of the old school do this part; he would have 
given it to some purpose ; you would have 
had such ranting and roaring, and stamping 
and storming ; to be sure, this honest man 
gives us a bounce now and then in the true 
old style, but in the main he seems to prefer 



29 

walking on plain ground to strutting on the 
stills used by the tragic heroes of my day. 

This is the chief of what passed between me 
and my companion during the play and en- 
tertainment, except an observation of his, 
that it would be well if the manager was to 
drill his nobility and gentry now and then, 
to enable them to go through their evolutions 
with more grace and spirit. This put me in 
mind of something my cousin Jack said to 
the same purpose, though he went too far in 
his zeal for reformation. He declared, " he 
wished sincerely one of the critics of the day 
would take all the slab-shahs of the theatre, 
(like cats in a bag,) and twig the whole 
bunch." I can't say but I like Jack's idea 
well enough, though it is rather a severe one. 

He might have remarked another fault that 
prevails among our performers (though I 
don't know whether it occurred this evening,) 
of dressing for the same piece in the fashions 
of different ages and countries, so that while 
one actor is strutting about the stage in the 
cuirass and helmet of Alexander, another, 
dressed up in a gold-laced coat and bag-wig, 



30 

with a chapeau de bras under his arm, is tak- 
ing snuff in the fashion of one or two centu- 
ries back, and perhaps a third figures in Su- 
warrow boots, in the true style of modern 
buckism. 

But what, pray, has become of the noble 
Marquis of Montague, and Earl of Warwick? 
(said the countryman, after the entertain- 
ment was concluded). Their names make a 
great appearance on the bill, but I do not re- 
collect having seen them in the course of the 
evening. Very true — I had quite forgot those 
worthy personages ; but I suspect they have 
been behind the scenes, smoking a pipe with 
our other friends incog., the Tripolitans. We 
must not be particular now-a-days, my friend. 
When we are presented with a battle of Hex- 
ham without fighting, and a Tripolitan after- 
piece without even a Mahometan whisker, 
we need not be surprised at having an invi- 
sible marquis or two thrown into the bargain. 
— " But what, is your opinion of the house?" 
said I ; " don't you think it a very substan- 
tial, solid-looking building, both inside and 
out? Observe what a fine effect the dark co- 



31 

louring of the wall has upon the white faces 
of the audience, which glare like the stars in 
a dark night. And then, what can be more 
pretty than the paintings in the front of the 
boxes, those little masters and misses suck- 
ing their thumbs, and making mouths at the 
audience?" 

" Very fine, upon my word. And what, 
pray, is the use of that chandelier, as you 
call it, that is hung up among the clouds, 
and has showered down its favours upon my 
coat ?" 

" Oh, that is to illumine the heavens, and 
set off to advantage the little periwig'd cu- 
pids, tumbling head over heels, with which 
the painter has decorated the dome. You 
see we have no need of the chandelier below, 
as here the house is perfectly well illumi- 
nated ; but I think it would have been a 
great saving of candle-light, if the manager 
had ordered the painter, among his other 
pretty designs, to paint a moon up there, or 
if he was to hang up that sun with whose in- 
tense light our eyes were greatly annoyed in 
the beginning of the after-piece ?" 

" But don't you think, after all, there is ra- 



32 

ther a— sort of a— kind of a heavyishness 
about the house? Don't you think it has a 
little of an under groundish appearance ?" 

To this I could make no answer. I must 
confess I have often thought myself the house 
had a dungeon-like look ; so I proposed to 
him to make our exit, as the candles were 
putting out, and we should be left in the 
dark. Accordingly, groping our way through 
the dismal subterraneous passage that leads 
from the pit, and passing through the ragged 
bridewell-looking antechamber, we once 
more emerged into the purer air of the park, 
when bidding my houest countryman good 
night, I repaired home, considerably pleased 
with the amusements of the evening. 

Thus, Mr. Editor, have I given you an 
account of the chief incidents that occurred 
in my visit to the Theatre. I have shown you 
a few of its accommodations and its imperfec- 
tions. Those who visit it more frequently 
may be able jto give you a better statement. 

I shall conclude with a few words of ad- 
vice for the benefit of every department of it. 
I would recommend— 



13 



To the actors — less etiquette, less fustian, 
less buckram. 

To the orchestra — new music, and more 
of it. 

To the pit — patience, clean benches, and 
umbrellas. 

To the boxes — less affectation, less noise, 
less coxcombs. 

To the gallery — less grog, and better con- 
stables ; — and, 

To the whole house, inside and out, a to- 
tal reformation. 

And so much for the Theatre. 

Jonathan Oldstyle, 



LETTER V. 

Sir, 

As I was sitting quietly by my tire- 
side the other morning, nursing my wounded 
shin, and reading to my cousin, Jack Stylish, 
a chapter or two from Chesterfield's Letters, 
I received the following epistle from my friend 
Andrew Quoz; who, hearing that I talked 
of paying the actors a visit, and shaking my 
cane over their heads, has written the follow- 
ing letter, part of which is strongly in their 
defence. 

To Jonathan Oldstylk, Genl. 

My Dear Friend, 

I perceive by the late papers, you have 
been entertaining the town with remarks on 
the Theatre. As you do not seem from your 
writings to be much of an adept in the Thes- 
pian arcana, permit me to give you a few 
hints for your information. 

The Theatre, you observe, begins to an- 
swer all the purposes of a coffee-house. Here 



35 

you are right; it is the polite lounge, where 
the idle and curious resort, to pick up the 
news of the fashionable world, to meet their 
acquaintances, and to show themselves off. to 
advantage. As to the dull souls who go for 
the sake of the play, why, if their attention is 
interrupted by the conversation of their neigh- 
bours, they must bear it with patience; it is 
a custom authorized by fashion. Persons 
who go for the purpose of chatting with their 
friends are not to be deprived of their amuse- 
ment; they have paid their dollar, and have 
a right to entertain themselves as well as 
they can. As to those who are annoyed by 
their talking, why they need not listen to it ; 
let them mind their own business. 

You are surprised at so many persons using 
opera-glasses, and wish to know whether they 
were all near-sighted. Your cousin, Jack 
Stylish, has not explained that matter suffi- 
ciently, for though many mount glasses be* 
cause it is the go, yet I am told that several 
do it to enable them to distinguish the coun- 
tenances of their friends across our scantily 
illuminated Theatre. I was considerably 
amused the other evening with an honest tar, 



36 

who had stationed himself in front of the 
gallery, and with an air of affected foppish- 
ness, was reconnoitring the house through a 
pocket telescope. I could not but like his 
notion, for really the gods are so elevated 
among the clouds, that unless they are un- 
usually strong of vision, I can't tell how they 
manage to discern with the naked eye what 
is passing in the little painted world below 
them. 

I think you complain of the deficiency of 
the music; and say that we want a greater 
variety, and more of it. But you must know 
that, though this might have been a grievance 
in old times, when people attended to the 
musicians, it is a thing of but little moment 
at present ; our orchestra is kept principally 
for form sake. There is such a continual 
noise and bustle between the acts, that it is 
difficult to hear a note ; and if the musicians 
were to get up a new piece of the finest me- 
lody, so nicely tuned are the ears of their au- 
ditors, that I doubt whether nine hearers out 
of ten would not complain on leaving the 
house, that they had been bored to death with 
the same old pieces they have heard two or 



37 

three years back. Indeed, many who go to 
the theatre carry their own music with them ; 
and we are so often delighted with the crying 
of children by way of glee, and such cough- 
ing and sneezing from various -parts of the 
house by way of chorus, not to mention the 
regale of a sweet symphony from a sweep or 
two in the gallery, and occasionally a full 
piece, in which nasal, vocal, whistling and 
thumping powers are admirably exerted and 
blended, that what want we of an orchestra? 
In your remarks on the actors, my dear 
friend, let me beg of you to be cautious. I 
would not for the world that you should de- 
generate into a critic. The critics, my dear 
Jonathan, are the very pests of society; they 
rob the actor of his reputation — the public of 
their amusement; they open the eyes of their 
readers to a full perception of the faults of 
our performers, they reduce our feelings to a 
state of miserable refinement, and destroy en- 
tirely all the enjoyments in which our coarser 
sensations delighted. I can remember the 
time when I could hardly keep my seat 
through laughing at the wretched buffoonery, 
the merry-andrew tricks, and the unnatural 

D 



38 

grimaces played off by one of our theatric 
Jack Puddings; when I was struck with 
awful admiration at the roaring and ranting 
of a buskined hero, and hung with rapture on 
every word, while he was " tearing a passion 
to tatters — to very rags!" I remember the 
time when he who could make the queerest 
mouth, roll his eyes, and twist his body with 
the most hideous distortions, was surest to 
please. Alas ! how changed the times, or 
rather how changed the taste ; 1 can now sit 
with the gravest countenance, and look with- 
out a smile on all such mimicry ; their skip- 
ping, their squinting, their shrugging, their 
snuffling, delight not me; and as to their 
ranting and roaring, 

" I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turned, 
Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree," 

than any such fustian efforts to attain a shal- 
low gallery applause. 

Now, though I confess these critics have 
reformed the manners of the actors, as well 
as the tastes of the audience, so that these 
absurdities are almost banished from the New 
York stage, yet do I think they have em- 
ployed a most unwarrantable liberty. 



39 

A critic, my dear sir, has no more right to 
expose the faults of an actor, than he has to 
detect the deceptions of a juggler, or the im- 
positions of a quack. All trades must live ; 
and as long as the public are satisfied to ad- 
mire the tricks of the juggler, to swallow the 
drugs of the quack, or to applaud the fustian 
of the actor, whoever attempts to undeceive 
them, does but curtail the pleasures of the 
latter, and deprive the former of their bread. 

Ods-bud ! hath not an actor eyes, and shall 
he not wink?— hath not an actor teeth, and 
shall he not grin? — feet, and shall he not 
stamp?— lungs, and shall he not roar?-r- 
breast, and shall he not slap it? — hair, and 
shall he not club it? Is he not fed with 
plaudits from the gods? delighted with th limp- 
ings from the groundlings ? annoyed by hisses 
from the boxes ? 

You censure his follies, does he not com- 
plain? If you take away his bread, will he 
not starve ? If you starve him, will he not 
die? And if you kill him, will not his wife 
and seven small infants, six at her back and 
one at her breast, rise up and cry vengeance 
against you ? Ponder these things seriously 

d2 



40 

my friend Oldstyle, and you will agree with 
me that, as the actor is the most meritorious 
and faultless, so is the critic the most cruel 
and sanguinary character in the world—" as 
I will show you more fully in my next.'' 
Your loving friend, 

Andrew Quoz. 



From the tenor and conclusion of these 
remarks of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz, 
they may not improperly be called the 
" Rights of Actors ;" his arguments are, I 
confess, very forcible, but, as they are en- 
tirely new to me, I shall not hastily make up 
my mind. In the mean time, as my leg is 
much better, I believe I shall hobble to the 
theatre on Monday evening, borrow a seat 
in a side box, and observe how the actors 
conduct themselves. 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



LETTER VI. 

Sir, 

I mentioned in my last my intention 
of visiting the Theatre on Monday night. I 
accordingly reached there, with the assistance 
of Jack Stylish, who procured for me in one of 
the boxes an uncomfortable and dirty seat, 
which, however, I found as good as any of 
my neighbours. In the pit I was determined 
never again to venture. The little French- 
man, mentioned in my former remarks, had 
adopted the same resolution ; for, on casting 
my eyes around the Theatre, I recognised 
his sharp phiz, and pinched up cocked hat, 
peering over the ledge of the Shakspeare. The 
poor little fellow had not changed his place 
for the better ; a brawny Irishman was lean- 
ing with his arms a-kimbo on his shoulders, 
and coolly surveying the audience, unmindful 
of the writhings and expostulations of the ir- 
ritated little Gaul, whose chin was pressed 
hard upon the front of the box, and his small 
black eyes twinkling with fury and suffoca- 



42 

tion. How he disengaged himself I do not 
know, for my attention was just then called 
away by a different object ; and on turning 
around some time afterwards, Monsieur had 
disappeared. 

I found every thing wore its old appear- 
ance. The same silence, order, and regula- 
rity prevailed, as on my former visit. The 
central chandelier hung unmolested in the 
heavens, setting off to advantage the picture 
of Mr. Anybody, with which it is adorned, 
and shedding a melancholy ray into that den 
in which (if we may judge from the sounds 
that issue thence) so many troubled spirits 
are confined. 

I had marched into the Theatre through 
rows of tables heaped up with delicacies of 
every kind — here, a pyramid of apples or 
oranges, invited the playful palate of the 
dainty ; while there, a regiment of mince 
pies and custards, promised a more substan- 
tial regale to the hungry. I entered the box, 
and looked around with astonishment — not 
a grinder but had its employment. The 
crackling of nuts, and the craunching of ap- 
ples, saluted my ears on every side. Surely, 



43 



thought I, never was an employment fol- 
lowed up with more assiduity, than that 
of gormandizing- ; already it pervades every 
public place of amusement; hay, it even be- 
gins to steal into our churches, where many 
a mouthful is munched in private; and few 
have any more objection to eat than laugh in 
their sleeves. 

The eating mania prevails through every 
class of society ; not a soul but has caught 
the infection. Eating clubs are established 
in every street and alley, and it is impos- 
sible to turn a corner without hearing the 
hissing of frying-pans, winding the savoury 
steams of roast and boiled, or seeing some 
hungry genius bolting raw oysters in the 
middle of the street. I expect we shall 
shortly carry our knives and forks, like the 
Chinese do their chop-sticks, in our pockets. 

I was interrupted in my meditations by 
Jack Stylish, who proposed that we might 
take a peep into the lounging-room, the dash- 
ing appearance of which Jack described in 
high terms ; I willingly agreed to his pro- 
posal. 

The room perfectly answered my expecta- 



44 I 



tions, and was a-piece with the rest of the 
Theatre : the high finish of the walls, the 
windows fancifully decorated with red baize 
and painted canvas, and the sumptuous 
wooden benches placed around it, had a 
most inviting appearance. 

1 drew the end of one of them near to an 
elegant stove that stood in the centre of the 
room, and seating myself on it, stretched my 
lame leg over a chair ; placing my hands on 
the head of my cane, and resting my chin 
upon them, I began to amuse myself by recon- 
noitring the company, and snuffing up the 
delightful perfume of French brandy, Holland 
gin, and Spanish segars. 

I found myself in a circle of young gentry, 
who appeared to have something in agita- 
tion, by their winking and nodding; at the 
same time I heard a confused whispering 
around me, and could distinguish the words, 
smoke his wig — twig his silver buckles — old 
quiz — cane — cock'd hat — queer phiz — and a 
variety of others, by which [ soon found I 
was in bad quarters. Jack Stylish seemed 
equally uneasy with myself, for though he 
is fond of fun himself, yet I believe the young 



45 

dog has too much love for his old relation, 
to make him the object of his mirth. To get 
me away, he told me my friend Quoz was at 
the lower end of the room, and seemed, by 
his looks, anxious to speak with me ; we 
accordingly joined him, and finding that the 
curtain was about rising, we adjourned to 
the box together. 

In our way, I exclaimed against the inde- 
corous manner of the young men of the pre- 
sent day; the impertinent remarks on the 
company in which they continually indulge; 
and the cant phrases with which their shal- 
low conversation is continually interlarded. 
Jack observed, that I had popp'd among a 
set of hard boys ; yes, master Stylish, said I, 
turning round to him abruptly, and I ob- 
served by your winks and grins, that you are 
better acquainted with them than I could 
wish. Let me tell you, honest friend, if ever 
I catch you indulging in such despicable 
fopperies, and hankering after the company 
of these disrespectful youngsters, I will dis- 
card you from my affections entirely. By 
this time we had reached our box, so I left 
my cousin Jack to digest what I had just 



46 

said ; and I hope it may have weight with 
him ; though I fear, from the thoughtless 
gaiety of his disposition, and his knowledge 
of the strong hold he has in my foolish old 
heart, my menaces will make but little im- 
pression. 

We found the play already commenced. 
I was particularly delighted with the ap- 
pearance and manners of one of the female 
performers. What ease, what grace, what 
elegance of deportment — this is not acting, 
cousin Jack, said I — this is reality. 

After the play, this lady again came for- 
ward, and delivered a ludicrous epilogue. I 
was extremely sorry to find her step so far 
out of that graceful line of character, in which 
she is calculated to shine ; and I perceived, 
by the countenances around me, that the 
sentiment was universal. 

Ah ! said I, how much she forgets what is 
due to her dignity. That charming counte- 
nance was never made to be so unworthily 
distorted ; nor that graceful person and car- 
riage to represent the awkward movements 
of hobbling decrepitude. Take this word of 
advice, fair lady, from an old man, and a 



47 

friend: Never, if you wish to retain that 
character of elegance you so deservedly pos- 
/ sess — never degrade yourself by assuming 
the part of a mimic. 

The curtain rose for the afterpiece. Out 
skipped a jolly Merry Andrew. Aha ! said 
I, here is the Jack-pudding. I see he has 
forgot his broomstick and gridiron ; he'll 
compensate for these wants, I suppose, by 
his wit and humour. But where is his mas- 
ter, the Quack ? He'll be here presently, said 
Jack Stylish; he's a queer old codger; his 
name 's PufFaway ; here 's to be a rare roast- 
ing match, and this quizzical looking fellow 
turns the spit. The Merry Andrew now be- 
gan to deal out his speeches with great rapi- 
dity; but, on a sudden, pulling off a black 
hood that covered his face, who should I re- 
cognize but my old acquaintance, the portly 
gentleman. 

I started back with astonishment. Sictran* 
sit gloria mundi ! exclaimed I, with a melan- 
choly shake of the head. Here is a dreary, 
but true picture, of the vicissitudes of life — 
one night paraded in regal robes, surrounded 
with a splendid train of nobility ; the next, 



48 

degraded to a poor Jack-pudding, and with- 
out even a gridiron to help himself. What 
think you of this, my friend Quoz ? said I ; 
think you an actor has any right to sport 
with the feelings of his audience, by present- 
ing them with such distressing contrasts. Ho- 
nest Quoz, who is of the melting mood, shook 
his head ruefully, and said nothing. I, how- 
ever, saw the tear of sympathy tremble in his 
eye, and honoured him for his sensibility. 

The Merry Andrew went on with his part, 
and my pity increased as he progressed ; 
when, all of a sudden, he exclaimed, " And 
as to Oldstyle, I wish him to old Nick." My 
blood mounted into my cheeks at this inso- 
lent mention of my name. And what think 
you of this, friend Quoz? exclaimed I, vehe- 
mently : I presume this is one of your " rights 
of actors." I suppose we are now to have the 
stage a vehicle for lampoons and slanders ; 
on which our fellow citizens are to be carica- 
tured by the clumsy hand of every dauber 
who can hold a brush ! Let me tell you, Mr. 
Andrew Quoz, 1 have known the time when 
such insolence would have been hooted from 
the stage. 



49 

After some persuasion, I resumed my seat, 
and attempted to listen patiently to the rest 
of the afterpiece; but I was so disgusted with 
the Merry Andrew, that in spite of all his 
skipping, and jumping, and turning on his 
heel, I could not yield him a smile. 

Among the other original characters of the 
dramatis personae, we were presented with 
an ancient maiden; and entertained with jests 
and remarks from the buffoon and his asso- 
ciates, containing equal wit and novelty. But 
jesting apart, I think these attempts to injure 
female happiness, at once cruel and unmanly. 
I have ever been an enthusiast in my attach- 
ment to. the fair sex — I have ever thought 
them possessed of the strongest claims to our 
admiration, our tenderness, and our protec- 
tion. But when to these are added still 
stronger claims — when we see them aged and 
infirm, solitary and neglected, without a part- 
ner to support them down the descent of life 
—cold indeed must be that heart, and un- 
manly that spirit, that can point the shafts of 
ridicule at their defenceless bosoms — that can 
poison the few drops of comfort heaven has 
poured into their cup. 






50 

The form of my sister Dorothy presented 
itself to my imagination; her hair silvered by 
time, but her face unwrinkled by sorrow or 
care. She "hath borne her faculties so meek- 
ly," that age has marked no traces on her 
forehead. Amiable sister of my heart! cried 
I, who hast jogged with me through so many 
years of existence, is this to be the recom- 
pense of all thy virtues ; art thou, who 
never, in thought or deed, injured the feel- 
ings of another, to have thy own massacred, 
by the jarring insults of those to whom thou 
shouldst look for honour and protection? 

Away with such despicable trumpery — 
such shallow, worn-out attempts to obtain 
applause from the unfeeling. I'll no more of 
it; come along, friend Quoz; if we stay much 
longer, I suppose we shall find our courts of 
justice insulted, and attempts to ridicule the 
characters of private persons ! Jack Stylish 
entreated me to stay, and see the addition the 
manager had made to his live stock, of an 
ass, a goose, and a monkey. Not I, said I, 
III see no more. I accordingly hobbled oft' 
with my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. Jack de- 
clared he would stay behind and see the end 




51 

of the joke. On our way home, I asked 
friend Quoz, how he could justify such clum- 
sy attempts at personal satire. He seemed, 
however, rather reserved in his answers, and 
informed me, he would write his sentiments 
on the subject. 

The next morning, Jack Stylish related to 
ine the conclusion of the piece. How several 
actors went into awheel one after another, 
and after a little grinding, were converted 
into asses, geese, and monkeys, except the 
Merry Andrew, who was found such a tough 
jockey, that the wheel could not digest him, 
so he came out as much a Jack-pudding as 
ever. 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



LETTER VII. 

Sir, 

I had just put oi) my spectacles, and 

mended my pen, to give you an account of a 
visit I made some time since, with friend 
Quoz and my sister Dorothy, to a ball, when 
I was interrupted by the following letter from 
the former. 

My friend Quoz, who is what the world 
calls a knowing man, is extremely fond of 
giving his opinion in every affair. He displays 
in this epistle more than usual knowledge of 
his subject, and seems to exert all his argu- 
mentative talents to enforce the importance of 
his advice. I give you his letter without fur- 
ther comment, and shall postpone my de- 
scription of the ball to another opportunity. 



To Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent. 

My Dear Friend, 

I once more address you on a subject 
that 1 fear will be found irksome, and may 



53 

chafe that testy disposition (forgive my free- 
dom) with which you are afflicted. Exert, 
however, the good humour of which, at bot- 
tom, I know you to have a plentiful stock, 
and hear me patiently through. It is the anx- 
ious fear I entertain of your sinking into the 
gloomy abyss of criticism, on the brink of 
which you are at present tottering, that urges 
me to write. 

I would set before you the rights and 
wrongs of an actor; and by painting in strong 
colours the peculiarity of his situation, call 
your good sense into action. 

The world, my friend Oldstyle, has ever 
been prone to consider the theatrical profes- 
sion in a degraded point of view. What first 
gave rise to this opinion, I am at loss to con- 
ceive ; but I consider it as the relic of one of 
those ancient prejudices which the good sense 
of the world is daily discarding ; and I flatter 
myself it will in a little time be totally explo- 
ded. Why the actor should be considered 
inferior in point of respectability to the poet, 
the painter, or any other person who exerts 
his talents in delineating character, or in ex- 
hibiting the various operations of the human 

E 



54 

mind, I cannot imagine, I know you, friend 
Oldstyle, to be a man of too liberal sentiments 
not to be superior to these little prejudices ; 
and also one who regards an actor, provided 
his private character be good, with equal re- 
spect as the member of any other profession. 
Yet you are not quite aware of the important 
privileges solely attached to the dramatic 
performer. These I will endeavour to point 
out. 

The works of a poet or painter you may 
freely criticise — nay, they offer them for that 
purpose — they listen attentively to your ob- 
servations, and profit by your censures. But 
beware how you exercise such conduct to- 
wards an actor: he needs no instruction — his 
own impartial judgment is sufficient to detect 
and amend all his imperfections. Attempt to 
correct his errors, and you ruin him at once 
— hell starve to spite you ; he is like a decay- 
ed substance, that crumbles at the touch. 

No, Sir — when an actor is on the stage, he 
is in his own house — it is his castle — he then 
has you in his power — he may there bore 
you with his buffoonery, or insult you with 
his pointed remarks, with perfect impunity* 



55 

You, my friend, who are rather apt to be 
dissatisfied, may call it hard treatment to be 
thus annoyed, and yet compensate the annoy- 
er for his trouble. You may say, that as you 
pay an equivalent for your amusement, you 
should have the liberty of directing the actor 
in his attempts ; and as the Chinese does his 
ear-tickler, tell him when his instrument of- 
fends, and how he overdoes himself in the 
operation. This is an egregious mistake: you 
are obliged to him for his condescension in ex- 
erting his talents for your instruction ; and as 
to your money, why he only takes it to lessen 
in part the weight of your obligation. 

An actor is, as I before observed, compe- 
tent to judge of his own abilities; he may 
undertake whatever character he pleases, 
tragedy, comedy, or pantomime, however ill 
adapted his audience may think him to sus- 
tain it. He may rant and roar, and wink and 
grin, and fret and fume his hour upon the 
stage, and " who shall say nay?" He is 
paid by the manager for using his lungs and 
limbs, and the more he exerts them, the bet- 
ter does he fulfil the engagement, and the 

e 2 



56 

harder does he ivork for his living — and who 
shall deprive him of his "hard-earned bread?" 

How many an honest, lazy genius, has 
been flogged by these unfeeling critics into a 
cultivation of his talents, and attention to his 
profession ! — how have they doomed him to 
hard study and unremitting exertion! — how 
have they prejudiced the public mind, so 
that what might once have put an audience 
in convulsions of laughter, now excites no- 
thing but a slight pattering from the hands 
of the little shavers who are rewarded with 
seats in the gallery, for their trouble in keep- 
ing the boxes. Oh ! Mr. Oldstyle, it cuts 
me to the soul to see a poor actor stamp and 
storm, and slap his forehead, his breast, his 
pocket holes, all in vain ; to see him throw 
himself in some attitude of distraction or des- 
pair, and there wait in fruitless expectation 
the applauses of his friends in the gallery. 
In such cases, I always take care and clap 
him myself, to enable him to quit his pos- 
ture, and resume his part with credit. 

You was much irritated the other evening, 
at what you termed an ungenerous and \uj- 



57 

manly attempt to bring forward an ancient 
maiden in a ridiculous point of view. But I 
don't see why that should be made a matter 
of complaint. Has it not been done time 
out of mind ? Is it not sanctioned by daily 
custom in private life? Is not the character 
of Aunt Tabitha, in the farce, the same we 
have laughed at in hundreds of dramatic pie- 
ces? Since, then, the author has but travel- 
led in the same beaten track of character so 
many have trod before him, I see not why he 
should be blamed as severely as if he had all 
the guilt of originality upon his shoulders. 

You may say that it is cruel to sport with 
the feelings of any class of society; that folly 
affords sufficient field for wit and satire to 
work upon, without resorting to misfortune 
for matter of ridicule; that female sensibility 
should ever be sacred from the lash of sar- 
casm, &c. But this is all stuff — all cant. 

If an author is too indolent or too stupid 
to seek new sources for remark, he is surely 
excusable in employing the ideas of others 
for his own use and benefit. But I find I 
have digressed imperceptibly into the " rights 
of authors •" so let us return to our subject. 



58 

An actor, when he " holds the mirror up 
to nature," may, by his manoeuvres, twist and 
turn it so as to represent the object in any 
shape he pleases — nay, even give a caricature 
where the author intended a resemblance; 
he may blur it with his breath, or soil it with 
his dirty fingers, so that the object may have 
a colouring from the glass in which it is 
viewed, entirely different from its natural ap- 
pearance. To be plain, my friend, an actor 
has a right, whenever he thinks his author not 
sufficiently explicit, to assist him by his own 
wit and abilities ; and if by these means the 
character should become quite different from 
what was originally intended, and in fact be- 
long more to the actor than the author, the 
actor deserves high credit for his ingenuity. 
And even though his additions are quaint 
and fulsome, yet his intention is highly praise- 
worthy, and deserves ample encouragement. 

Only think, my dear sir, how many snug 
little domestic arrangements are destroyed by 
the officious interference of these ever dissa- 
tisfied critics. The honest King of Scot- 
land, who used to dress for market and the- 
atre at the same time, and wear with his kelt 



59 

and plaid his half boots and black breeches, 
looking half king, half cobbler, has been oblig- 
ed totally to dismiss the former from his royal 
service; yet I am happy to find, so obstinate 
is his attachment to old habits, that all their 
efforts have not been sufficient to dislodge 
him from the strong hold he has in the latter. 
They may force him from the boots — but 
nothing shall drive him out of the breeches. 

Consider, my friend, the puerile nature of 
such remarks. Is it not derogating from the 
elevated character of a critic, to take notice 
of clubbed wigs, red coats, black breeches, 
and half boots! Fie! fie upon it! I blush 
for the critics of the day, who consider it a 
matter of importance whether a Highlander 
should appear in breeches and boots, or an 
Otaheitan in the dress of a New York cox- 
comb. Trust me, friend Oldstyle, it is to 
the manner, not the appearance of an actor, 
we are to look ; and as long as he performs 
his part well, (to use the words of my friend 
Sterne,) " it shall not be inquired whether he 
did it in a black coat or a red." 

Believe me, friend Oldstyle, few of our 
modern critics can shew any substantial claim 



60 

to the character they assume. Let me ask 
them one question — Have they ever been in 
Europe? Have they ever seen a Garrick, a 
Kemble, or a Siddons ? If they have not, I 
can assure you, (upon the words of two or 
three of my friends, the actors,) they have no 
right to the title of critics. 

They may talk as much as they please 
about judgment, and taste, and feeling, but 
this is all nonsense. It has lately been de- 
termined, (at the Theatre,) that any one who 
attempts to decide upon such ridiculous prin- 
ciples, is an arrant goose, and deserves to be 
roasted. 

Having thus, friend Oldstyle, endeavoured 
in a feeble manner to show you a few of the 
rights of an actor, and of his wrongs ; having 
mentioned his constant and disinterested en- 
deavours to please the public, and how much 
better he knows what will please them, than 
they do themselves ; having also depicted the 
cruel and persecuting nature of a critic; the 
continual restraint he lays on the harmless 
irregularity of the performer, and the relent- 
less manner in which he obliges him to at- 
tend sedulously to his professional duty, 



1 



61 

-through fear of censure — let me entreat you 
to pause ! Open your eyes to the precipice 
on which you are tottering, and hearken to 
the earnest warning of 

Your loving friend, 

Andrew Quoz. 

My friend Quoz certainly writes with feel- 
ing; every line evinces that acute sensibility 
for which he has ever been remarked. I am, 
however, perfectly at a loss to conceive on 
whatgrounds he suspects me of a disposition 
to turn critic. My remarks hitherto have ra- 
ther been the result of immediate impression 
than of critical examination. With my friend, 
Mr. Andrew Quoz, I begin to doubt the mo- 
tives of our New-York critics; especially 
since I have, in addition to these arguments, 
the assurances of two or three doubtless dis- 
interested actors, and an editor, who, Mr. 
Quoz tells me, is remarkable for his candour 
and veracity, that the critics are the most 
* presumptuous/ ' arrogant/ 'malevolent/ ' il- 
liberal/ * ungentlemanlike/ ' malignant/ ' ran- 
corous/ ' villanous/ ' ungrateful,' !■ crippled/ 
' invidious/ ' detracting/ ' fabricating/ ' per- 



62 

sonal,' ' dogmatical,' * illegitimate,' € tyranni- 
cal,' ' distorting,' ' spindle-shanked moppets, 
designing villains, and upstart ignorants/ 

These, 1 say, and many other equally high 
polished appellations, have awakened doubts 
in my mind respecting the sincerity and jus- 
tice of the critics ; and lest my pen should 
unwittingly draw upon me the suspicion of 
having a hankering after criticism, I now wipe 
it carefully, lock it safely up, and promise 
not to draw it forth again till some new de- 
partment of folly calls for my atteution. 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



LETTER VIII. 

Sir, 

I was calmly enjoying my toast and 
coffee some mornings ago, with my sister 
Dorothy and Jack Stylish, when we were 
surprised by the abrupt entrance of my friend, 
Mr. Andrew Quoz. By the particular ex- 
pression of his knowing phiz, as cousin Jack 
calls it, I immediately perceived he was la- 
bouring with some important intelligence. 

In one hand he held the Morning Chro- 
nicle, and with the fore-finger of the other, 
pointed to a particular paragraph. I hastily 
put on my spectacles, and seized the paper 
with eager curiosity. Judge my surprise, 
Mr. Editor, on reading an act of our legisla- 
ture, pronouncing any citizen of this State 
who shall send, bear, or accept a challenge, 
either verbal or written, disqualified from 
holding any office of honour or confidence, or 
of voting at any election within this State, 
&c. &c. 

The paper fell from my hands— I turned 



64 

my eyes to friend Andrew in mute astonish- 
ment. Quoz put his finger on his nose, and 
winking significantly, cried, " what do you 
think of this, my friend Jonathan ?" 

" Here is a catastrophe," exclaimed I, in a 
melancholy tone. " Here is a damper for 
the mettlesome youths of the age. Spirit of 
chivalry, whither hast thou flown! Shade of 
Pon Quixote, dost thou not look down with 
contempt on the degeneracy of the times !" 

My sister Dorothy caught a sympathetic 
spark of enthusiasm ; — deep read in all the 
volumes of ancient romance, and delighted 
with the glowing description of the heroic 
age, she had learned to admire the gallantry 
of former days, and mourned to see the last 
spark of chivalric fire thus rudely extin- 
guished. 

Alas ! my brother, said she, to what a de- 
plorable state are our young men reduced ! 
how piteous must be their situation — with 
sensibilities so .easily injured, and bosoms so 
tremblingly alive to the calls of honour and 
etiquette ! 

Indeed, my dear Dorothy, said I, I feel 
most deeply for their melancholy situation. 



65 

Deprived, in these dull, monotonous, peace- 
able times, of all opportunities of evincing, in 
the hardy contest of the tented field, that he- 
roic flame that burns within their breasts; 
they were happy to vent the lofty fumings of 
their souls, in the more domestic and less 
dangerous encounters of the duel :— like the 
warrior in the fable, who, deprived of the 
pleasure of slaughtering armies, contented 
himself with cutting down cabbages. 

Here a solemn pause ensued. I called to 
mind all the tales I had heard or read of an- 
cient knights ; their amours, their quarrels, 
and their combats; how, on a fair summer's 
morning, the knight of the Golden Goose met 
the knight of the Fiery Fiddle; how the 
knight of the Fiery Fiddle exclaimed in lofty 
tones, " whoever denies that Donna Fiddle- 
osa is the most peerless beauty in the uni- 
verse, must brave the strength of this arm P' 
how they both engaged with dreadful fury, 
and, after fighting till sunset, the knight of 
the Fiery Fiddle fell a martyr to his con- 
stancy; murmuring, in melodious accents, 
with his latest breath, the beloved name of 
Fiddleosa. 



66 

From these ancient engagements, I de- 
scended to others more modern in their dates, 
but equally important in their origins. I re- 
called the genuine politeness and polished 
ceremony with which duels were conducted 
in my youthful days; when that gentlemanly 
weapon, the smallsword, was in highest vogue. 
A challenge was worded with the most par- 
ticular complaisance; and one that I have 
still in my possession, ends with the words, 
" your friend and affectionate servant, Nicho- 
las Stubbs." When the parties met on the 
field, the same decorum was observed ; they 
pulled off their hats, wished one another a 
good day, and helped to draw off each other's 
coats and boots, with the most respectful ci- 
vility. Their fighting, too, was so handsome- 
ly conducted; no awkward movements; no 
eager and angry pushes ; all cool, elegant, 
and graceful. Every thrust had its sa-sa; 
and a ha-hah lunged you gently through the 
body. Then nothing could equal the tender- 
ness and attention with which & wounded 
antagonist was treated ; his adversary, after 
wiping his sword deliberately, kindly sup- 
ported him in his arms, examined his pulse, 






67 

and inquired, with the most affectionate so- 
licitude, " how he felt himself now ?" Thus 
every thing was conducted in a well-bred, 
gentlemanly manner. 

Our present customs, I cannot say I much 
admire; — a twelve inch barrel pistol, and 
ounce ball y are blunt, unceremonious affairs, 
and prevent that display of grace and ele- 
gance allowed by the small sword ; besides, 
there is something so awkward, in having the 
muzzle of a pistol staring one full in the face, 
that I should think it might be apt to make 
some of our youthful heroes feel rather dis- 
agreeable; unless, as I am told has been 
sometimes the case, the duel was fought by 
twilight. 

The ceremony of loading, priming, cock- 
ing, &c. has not the most soothing effects on 
a person's feelings ; and I am told that some 
of our warriors have been known to tremble, 
and make wry faces, during these prepara- 
tions ; though this has been attributed, and 
doubtless with much justice, to the violence 
of their wrath, and fierceness of their courage,, 

I had thus been musing for some time, when 

broke silence at last, by hinting to friend 



68 

Quoz, some of my objections to the mode of 
fighting with pistols. 

Truly, my friend Oldstyle, said Quoz, I 
am surprised at your ignorance of modern 
customs ; trust me, I know of no amusement 
that is, generally speaking, more harmless. . 
To be sure, there may now and then a couple 
of determined fellows take the field, who re- 
solve to do the thing in good earnest; but, 
in general, our fashionable duellists are con- 
tent with only one discharge; and then, ei- 
ther they are poor shots, or their triggers 
pull hard, or they shut the wrong eye, or 
some other cause intervenes, so that it is ten, 
ay, twenty chances to one in their favour. 

Here I begged leave to differ from friend 
Andrew. I am well convinced, said I, of 
the valour of our young men, and that they 
determine, when they march forth to the 
field, either to conquer or die; but it gene- 
rally happens, that their seconds are of a 
more peaceable mind, and interpose after the 
first shot; but I am informed, that they come 
often very near being killed, having bullet 
holes through their hats and coats ; which, 
like FalstafTs hacked sword, are strong 



69 

proofs of the serious nature of their encoun- 
ters. 

My sister Dorothy, who is of a humane 
and benevolent disposition, would, no doubt, 
detest the idea of duels, did she not regard 
them as the last gleams of those days of chi- 
valry, to which she looks back with a degree 
of romantic enthusiasm. She now consi- 
dered them as having received their death- 
blow; for how can even the challenges be 
conveyed, said she, when the very messen- 
gers are considered as principals in the of- 



Nothiug more easy, said friend Quoz; — a 
man gives me the lie — very well ; I tread on 
his toes in token of challenge ; — he pulls my 
nose by way of acceptance ; thus, you see, 
the challenge is safely conveyed without a 
third party. We then settle the mode in 
which satisfaction is to be given; as, for in- 
stance, we draw lots which of us must be 
slain to satisfy the demands of honour. Mr. 
A. or Mr. B., my antagonist, is to fall : well, 
miadam, he stands below in the street; I run 
up to the garret window, and drop a brick 
upon his head ; if he survives, well and good 

F 



70 

— if he falls, why nobody is to blame, it was 
purely accidental. Thus, the affair is settled, 
according to the common saying, to our mu- 
tual satisfaction. 

Jack Stylish observed, that, as to Mr. 
Quoz's project of dropping bricks on people's 
heads, he considered it a vulgar substitute. 
For his part, he thought it would be well 
for the legislature to amend their law respect- 
ing duels, and license them under proper 
restrictions ; — That no persons should be al- 
lowed to fight, without taking out a regular 
license from what might be called the Blood 
and Thunder Office; — That they should be 
obliged to give two or three weeks notice of 
the intended combat in the newspapers ; — 
That the contending parties should fight, till 
one of them fell ; — and that the public should 
be admitted to the shoiv. This, he observed, 
would, in some degree, be reviving the spec- 
tacles of antiquity, when the populace were 
regaled with the combats of gladiators. We 
have, at present, no games resembling those 
of the ancients, except, now and then, a bull 



71 

or bear bait ; and this would be a valuable 
addition to the list of our refined amuse- 
ments. 

I listened to their discourse in silence: yet 
I cannot but think, Mr. Editor, that this 
plan is entitled to some attention. Our young 
men fight, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, 
through fear of being branded with the epi- 
thet of coward; and since they fight to 
please the world, the world, being thus in- 
terested in their encounters, should be per- 
mitted to attend and judge in person of their 
conduct. 

As I think the subject of importance, I 
take the liberty of requesting a corner in the 
Morning Chronicle, to submit it to the con- 
sideration of the public. 

Jonathan Oldstyle. 



J. M'Creery, printer, 
looks Court, Loudon. 












L6JL t)7 



/ 



